Tristan

Tristan by Henry H. Hilliard

This work fully protected under The United States Copyright Laws 17 USC 101, 102(a), 302(a). All Rights Reserved. The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent.

If reading this story is not legal in your jurisdiction, stop it right now.

If you enjoy this story, please consider making a donation to Nifty to keep this platform alive.

Chapter 36

Tristan was bored. He went over a section of Iain Macpherson's manuscript of a book on the origins of the Great War that he had already done just to make the task, which was nearing completion, last a little longer.

Then he went down into the empty house and rearranged some things in the kitchen cupboards that didn't need rearranging. In the basement he put some dirty clothes in the washing machine, although he had washed only the day before.

Upstairs, he opened the door to the second bedroom--the one that was Deshawn's alone. He stood and marvelled at the sight before him just as they had all done less than a week before. In the middle of the room stood an iron contraption. It was part machine and part furniture. The iron had been waxed and the visible nuts and bolts were all in lacquered brass. The most remarkable feature was the double bed, which hovered five feet above he floor--lower than a conventional bunk--and as seemingly unsupported as a diving board.

"But it will tip over when you get in," said someone.

"You'll bounce off when y'fuckin' a chick," prophesised another.

Deshawn would have none of it. He climbed easily onto the bed by using the stepped storage boxes on one side. He flung himself down and the bed barely moved. The mattress lay on a sheet of composition board that seemed impossibly thin. However, when one bobbed down, it was clear that the board was deceitfully supported back from its edges by twin iron girders. These disappeared into the cabinetwork at the rear only to re-emerge on the floor like one of those hospital trays. It was a `cantilever' explained the undergraduate engineer.

The bed was only the beginning. All manner of mechanical things had spewed forth from Deshawn's fertile brain. The boxes that formed the steps opened for storage. At the back was a small closet for clothes. A natty desk folded out accompanied by its own stool swung on an ornamental iron pivot--this had come from a junk shop. The desktop could be made to tilt and there was a compartment for drawing materials and a laptop underneath. An old angle-poise lamp arched over the desk and another for reading in bed moved out on a pantograph. Only the television was not attached--it was pivoted on the wall on the other side of the room.

Most remarkable of all, the whole infernal machine could be rolled (with some effort) when the brakes were disengaged on the casters, which had once belonged to a dumped supermarket cart.

The household was flabbergasted. It took photos with its phones. Deshawn was made to strip off and climb into bed where he posed reading and sleeping. He sat at the desk and pretended to work. He stood grinning by opened storage cabinets. Tristan sent some of these photos to his father. Surely Globoco would want someone like Deshawn--even if something of an `oddball'."

What could compete with the Heath Robinson bed? A Deshawn coffee table made from the door of a deceased football star's locker, is the answer. Carlos unveiled it when he pulled off a bed sheet with a flourish. The door now stood on four iron legs made of ordinary square metal tube--it had been an old College table that De had cut down. Small wheels had been fitted to each of the `rear' legs and a brass axel spanned the front legs and sported two more wheels--these had come from a child's toy wagon. The axel was threaded by a brass cog around which was wound a fine chain, like a bike chain, but it had come from a grandfather clock. It disappeared beneath the table.

When a lever under the table was depressed a little motor was activated and the chain propelled the front wheels and the heavy table moved slowly for just a few feet before stopping. It could be revered, but it only went in two directions to facilitate cleaning underneath. Tristan had thought that it was operated by a simple battery, but Deshawn had gone a step further; it was powered by a solar panel (possibly `borrowed' from the Engineering Faculty) that was located beneath the brass grille in Johnny Unitas' old door. Apparently the sunlight in the living room was sufficient for its occasional use.

They all tried it and the door was made to carry the TV remote and bottles of beer from one couch to another. More importantly, Mrs Perez liked it and said it would save her back. As if to prove its worth, she moved the table once again and retrieved an errant Cheezel from beneath it.

Tristan found delight in his house, but missed Colt and the others who had all returned to their homes. Grady had fist-bumped everybody goodbye and Colton received a chase hug when Grady thought no one was looking. He was still only a boy in many ways. He departed with Hollis in the old truck for West Texas.

Carlos and Deshawn also took their leave, both having jobs to return to. Alex stayed a day longer to set up her room. Tristan took her and Colton out to dinner somewhere a little nicer than Nonno's. They had a fun night.

Tristan was dreading Colton's departure. He knew that he must let him go to help with the grape harvest. He knew that he was concerned for Brady. He also knew that he would be seeing him in just a few weeks for their trip to England, but he also knew that those few weeks would seem a great deal longer than they appeared on the calendar.

On Colton's last day, Tristan was in a state of great torment that he tried to hide from Colton. This manifested itself in Tristan wanting to have sex with him the whole day. Colton was happy to oblige and allowed Tristan to swallow two loads before a more conventional breakfast. Then Tristan wanted to shower with Colton and he unashamedly cleaned himself out with the shower shot, while Colton looked on. Then they repaired to the bench seat where Colton opened up Tristan with his tongue and then with dildo affectionately nicknamed, `The Hindenburg'. "You like doing that, Colt?" gasped Tristan as the instrument stretched his bowels and raked over his prostate.

"Yeah, I guess it's a power trip. Sick?"

"No, it's hot when you're doing it, but fuck me now." Colton did and ejaculated inside Tristan. "Can you go again, Colt? I still haven't cum." Colton performed like the twenty year-old stud he was. "Again?"

"Shit, Tris! I've cum four times and it's not even ten-thirty."

Colton put the butt plug inside Tristan's rectum and then went down on Tristan--an unaccustomed action for the starting quarterback. Tristan lay back and ran his fingers through Colton's blonde hair--now grown long and bleached by the sun--as Colton's head bobbed just as his own had been that very morning.

At last: "I'm getting close, Colt."

"Let it go, man," Colton managed to say with his mouth full. He did something extra with his tongue and Tristan arched his back and spilled his seed.

Colton stood. He was erect. He stroked his own piece and produced yet another load, this time on Tristan's face and chest.

"Fuck!" gasped Colton. "Look at m'cock."

Tristan opened his eyes. Colton's penis was a sorry sight. It hung there red and raw. Purple blotches may have been bruising. His balls hung lax.

"Shit they're tender!" said Colton, wincing slightly as he gingerly hefted them.

"Sorry," said Tristan, not sorry at all.

Colton managed to grin. "Nah, don't be, it was hot." He stood over the prone Tristan and dangled his member over Tristan's mouth. Tristan extended his tongue and managed to taste the still-juicy foreskin. "When I go, some of me will live in you and some of you in me."

Colton's unintentionally poetic words echoed in Tristan's head when he had gone and Tristan found himself murmuring them as he moved about the empty house, now bereft of he who spoke them--or `spake them' he found himself saying. He was staring at the Cowboy while wearing a pair of Colton's boxers--blue boxer briefs that were too stretched by their rightful owner to fit Tristan's skinny form.

Ah!" he said to himself suddenly, The Prayer of Humble Access' from the Book of Common Prayer that he knew so well from chapel at School. Was it blasphemous to think it? It was the phrasing and the meter that had reminded him. The parody of the sacrament was perhaps unfortunate and unintended. He did not believe in God in any case--or thought it unlikely that God existed, to be more accurate, so he could not be offended-- or was unlikely to be so-- just by what Tristan had unconsciously thought.

Nevertheless, he felt uncomfortable with the sudden discovery of the parallel. What was the relationship between the messy tokens of sexual love and Love in some purer' form? (Here he recalled Eros and Agápe in Ancient Greek) He found it hard to distinguish them. Was one sort of love more profound than the other? And what was love that men (and women) experienced to the love of God--or some deity--that saved' people talked about but Tristan doubted they ever really experienced? The whole idea of human love as some sort of quasi sacrament was also unappealing and perhaps also sacrilegious. He loved Colton and loved having sex with him. Wasn't that enough?

He lay on the porch swing and thought about people who prayed for God to fix all the mistakes that he had apparently made. He wondered if his mother had prayed for him to be `fixed', but then dismissed it; his mother was no more religious than he was, even if she did think in her deepest heart that Tristan was an embarrassment, a disappointment, a blot on the family escutcheon. Then there were all those people who saw love and marriage as being somehow divine. Was it also God's plan that his parents fell out of love? No, it was human frailty. And it was mere serendipity that he should have been placed in the same dorm room as Colton Stone.

The sound of a choir could be heard floating across form the Latter Day Saints' Church. He dismissed as childishly fanciful the story of Joseph Smith using seer stones' and finding a buried book written on gold plates in Bumfuck New York (or someplace) and of the crystal spectacles that enabled him to translate the reformed Egyptian' in the three-ring binder under the direction of the angel Moroni. It wasn't even an attractive fable and he knew it was a religion that controlled and repressed its adherents, especially people like him. He thought it was ironic that the notorious prohibition of stimulants like coffee and tea were most profound in a nation where the two were undrinkable anyway, but it was a nation that did not get irony, as he was always telling Colton.

He didn't need Colton's cum up his butt for Colton to be with him as he moved about the house trying to kill time. Online he found framed prints of popular American art works for sale. He ordered Norman Rockwell's Saying Grace and would surprise Colton when he saw it hanging next to the Dogs.

One day was brightened by the arrival of the books that he had ordered. He spent the morning writing inscriptions on the flyleaves. He posted copies to Ben and to Ivy in New York. Taking courage, he sent one to Professor Troost, care of the College.

The men arrived to install the Murphy bed in the alcove off the upstairs landing and while this was being done, a van arrived with Parker's new bed. Tristan was sorry that Parker himself could not come from Rome.

On another day, while he was eating a solitary sandwich in the backyard, he looked up at the skyline. Some trees would be an improvement, he thought, for although the big front yard had trees that must have been as old as the house, the back yard had always been rather utilitarian and there was only grass and a few non-descript shrubs to sooth the eye. He consulted Mr Burridge next door. What were the big trees in their gardens and what sort would be suitable to plant in Texas? He was told they were Shumard Oaks and that they grew to great heights. "But they're slow growers, Winston," said Mr Burridge looking up into the impressive canopy, "Might could take a hundred years afore they reach maturity."

Tristan thought that he'd better not waste a single afternoon and so set out for a plant nursery in Sunset that only occasionally sold retail, but had a fine stock of mature trees.

"I suppose I should wait until winter, Mr Walters." Mr Walters had a delightfully weather beaten face that looked like a knotty tree bough.

"No Sir, if'n you're plantin' from a pot and y'keep the water up over the summer, you should have no problems. Prepare your soil and remember the advice: "Dig a twenty dollar hole for a ten dollar tree."

"Good advice, but this tree is one hundred-and-twenty dollars Mr Walters."

In the end, as well as the good advice, Tristan came away with the oak, a pistachio (because he liked the name), a bag of organic fertilizer, a bag of compost and stout stakes for the new trees.

He spent the rest of the day selecting suitable locations and digging holes. One day, he thought to himself as he patted down the soil with the back of the spade, the oak will be a giant and shade the parking lot and the barbecue, and the back wall of the Waxman Centre will be totally obscured. However, at the moment, the tree only came to the height of the `privacy fence' that separated the yard from the parking lot in the side street. The smaller nut tree was placed along the rear fence, but distant from the rotary clothes hoist that now was adorned with Hollis' tee-shits and underwear.

It was hot work and at last Tristan sat back and admired what he had done. It was a good thing to plant trees. It showed a faith in the future and put human lives into their proper perspective. Of course, it would not be he who would one day be sitting where he was now sitting and admiring the oak in its majestic maturity. Who would it be looking up into its branches against some future Texas sky? Where would he be?

His phone rang. It was the floor layer. He had forgotten about him. He said he would be coming to take up the new lino in the kitchen and was replacing it with the even newer `brick red' lino that Cylvah had picked out and secured for a good price. Tristan was so bored, he actually looked forward to it.

With Iain Macpherson's indexing completed and the whole project emailed to the author who was guest lecturing in Melbourne, Tristan had even less to do. The lino man had politely told him to go away so he could get on with his work. Tristan watered his new trees for the second time that day and then looked to see if there were any clothes to wash. There weren't. He went to the kitchen and asked the layer if he wanted some coffee.

"No thank you, Mr Isley, I already have the one you made me," he said, knife in hand and on his knees.

"Oh yes, of course," said Tristan. He looked across the room to the bedroom that had once housed the maid. As yet, no one had claimed the room and it was generally thought to be one left for guests to the house. As it had no bed and Tristan thought he'd better get one. He measured it up, the exasperated lino man having to stop work every time Tristan crossed the room. The room was less than nine feet wide and so Tristan looked online for three-quarter bed. He found one quite quickly. It was not expensive so he ordered it, then sat back. He looked out of the loft window. The sun was high, but perhaps it wasn't too hot for a walk.

So it went on for Tristan in his boredom. There was no way around it: he missed Colton because he loved Colton.

He drove up to Dallas and saw his father and went over his plan for seeing his mother in England. His father was as non-committal as he thought he would be and now he realised that his father had a hard time reading how Tristan was feeling and the usual appropriate responses could not be expected from him. Still, it wasn't an awful visit and he was sorry when his father said that he had to fly to Washington. Cylvah was sympathetic, but she had to excuse herself for work commitments too and so Tristan found himself driving back to College.

Tristan had been texting Colton, but now he wanted more. Before going to sleep he caught him on FaceTime. His heart sang when he saw Colton's handsome face.

"Where's Brady?" he asked after the usual pleasantries.

"Watchin' some shit with Mom and Dad. Should be coming t'bed soon."

"How is he?"

"Good, I think," said Colton. "He goes to see someone once a week n' I've devised a little therapy of m'own."

"What's that?"

"Well, there's two hot Dutch chicks come to work pickin' grapes. They're in college over there and they're real friendly-like and speak English better'n me a Brade."

"I see," said Tristan, seeing.

"Yeah, well, I've let Brady have the better looking one--Jasmijn--and I've got dibs on her friend, Fenna. We're goin' on a double date to the Biergarten tomorrow night and Brady's stoked. I'm doin' it because I think Brady needs a good experience with women."

"And you?"

"Well, you said you wanted me to date girls so I didn't turn gay."

"I didn't exactly say that."

"Well, wouldn't you find it hot to think of me pounding a pretty uninhibited Dutch babe?"

"I suppose so," said Tristan, far from sure.

"Well, Mom thinks Brady needs his confidence built-up and these chicks won't be no trouble, unlike his usual bitches. In any case, they're off to Ziebell's farm next week and then headin' off to Arizona. They want to see the Grand Canyon, but they'll get to see me an' Brade first.

"I see," said Tristan again, trying to work things out in his brain.

"I miss you, Tris," said Colton, suddenly.

"You do?"

"Yeah, I'm havin' a blast with Brade an' Beau an' the Coyotes, but I can't wait t'get back."

"Fuck I miss you, Colt."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"I reckon it's virtual J.O. time. Brady won't be back till the movie's over."

"You been sleeping with him, Colt?" asked Tristan, not being able to help himself.

"Nah. Just jacking in our own beds, that's all."

"Have your balls recovered?"

"From the mauling that you gave them, you sick fuck? See f'y'self." He moved the phone down and Tristan could see him start to slide down a pair of black briefs.

"They're mine! Leave them on."

"Yeah, but we share, don't we? I like wearin' 'em. Reckon it make's m'bulge look bigger."

"Fuck, you're huge! Are you sure you don't have a pair of socks stuffed inside?"

"You know it's all Colty beef, Tris." He parted his legs to fully display his groin before groping himself. Eventually he slid the underwear down, which was difficult with one hand. His big cock uncoiled and Tristan could see that the head, surrounded by folds of skin, was glistening in the lamplight.

"Fuck, I want to taste that!"

"Slut!" laughed Colton and then angled the phone to his balls, which had lost their bruising. "Need you to shave 'em, Tris." He then threw his legs back and exposed his anus. "Pretty?"

"Prettiest in the whole locker room, I've heard tell," replied Tristan with amused lust.

Colton continued to feel his own body. Tristan could see his urgent erection. "I need y'all here to skin me back proper," breathed Colton huskily. "You'd do that, Tris?"

"Fuck, Colt, I'd get you so hard that it would hurt and then I'd get you off until you passed out from cumming."

"You could do that?"

"Yeah. You could wrap those fucking jock legs around my head and force me down on your piece then, later, I'd wrap my legs around you and you could fuck me standing up against the wall. You could go in extra deep--you know."

"Past the rectosigmoid junction?" said Colton, ever the anatomist.

"Yeah, if you could."

"Might could, but don't that hurt too much?"

"A bit, but I want to totally please you--for you to use me to the full-- besides, I'm a size queen."

" Y'gettin' me right worked up, Roomy."

"Me too."

"Talk dirty, British dude," said Colton, now jerking his cock.

Tristan initially found it hard to, when put on the spot, but then let his mind go wild.

"I should be giving the quarterback great head--whenever and wherever he demands it."

"True."

"I should be worshipping his muscled body; cleaning him in the shower after a hard day getting funky."

"Yeah, but you should be usin' that tongue if it's not worn out by lickin' my ball sweat n' sweaty hole."

"Yeah, that's right. And I should be holding your big piece while you take a piss."

"Better still, I should be hosing you down with m'jock piss."

"Naturally, and you should hold me down with your jock foot as you do it--after I've licked it clean, of course."

"Some foot massage would be ace, but I don't think I can piss standin' on one leg."

"Don't spoil it, Colt, I'm almost there. In my fantasy you can."

"Okay. I'd make you look at m'piece an' then the meatus would gape and I'd fuckin' cum straight in your face--bam! Head on! You'd be fuckin' drippin' in it an' it an' wipin' out of your eyes an' tryin' to reach for it with your tongue."

"I might have just ducked."

"Now you're spoilin' it. You didn't duck an' y'all copped my jock snot on y'slutty fag face."

"And I loved it."

"And y'all loved it and it made y'cum."

"Not working, Colt. Hold the phone still and do a double bicep pose."

Colton placed his phone on the bedside table, propped up against the lamp. He pulled an appropriate frowning face and moved until it looked as if he was going to punch his fists into the sides of his head. His tanned biceps popped like aubergines. He held the pose and then switched to doing just one at a time. He lowered his arms so Tristan could see him flex his abs. Then he sensuously kissed his own biceps. Tristan wanted to laugh at this act of self-love, but was concentrating on getting off, so he suppressed the desire.

"Fuck, I want you!" wailed Tristan and then he came. He dropped his phone, but not before Colton saw his cum bubble through his fist.

When the video link was resumed, Tristan could see Colton going to town on his own big member, lifting his arse from the bed in order to thrust harder into his pair of clenched fists.

"Open your mouth, Tris, I'm coming!"

But it was Colton who opened his own mouth and caught some before painting his neck and chest with the rest.

"Fuck that was hot!" he said as he reached for his cum towel. "You still conscious, Tris?"

"Yeah, I hope you don't think me weird for going all sub on you."

"Course not. I get of on you getting off on me. It's me who's sick."

"Well, maybe we both are or neither of us is."

They then talked a bit about London and Tristan was just thinking of ending the call when Brady entered the room.

"Jesus, fuck, Stone. It smells like cum in here," he heard Brady say.

"Just got off. Tris is on FaceTime."

"Howdy, Tris!" called Brady cheerfully and then he came into view. He was pulling off his tee-shirt and jeans.

"Hello Brady. How are you doing?"

"Ain't he polite, Colt? I'm not doing too bad for a working stiff. Pickin' grapes in the hot sun, drivin' the tractor and that sort of stuff."

"We'll put some meat on those scrawny bones," interjected Colton.

"Well, your Mom's cookin' is helping. She's been great to me, Tris. So has Drake. They've got me seein' a shrink..."

"She ain't a shrink, dude, just a counsellor."

"Yeah, that's right, Tris, she just listens to my shit and makes me feel better."

"I have to listen to his shit, Tris, but I don't get paid."

"You love my shit talk, Stone. I wise you up to stuff." His dirty jeans came off and were flung on a chair. "If I took a pay cut from your dad, do you think I could sleep somewhere that doesn't smell like a locker room?"

"That smell is your cum, Brady. Mine don't stink. The room smelled okay afore you're rotting carcass got here."

"Hey Brady!" said Tristan. "Do you think Drake would give you Monday off? You could drive up here with Colt on Sunday and have a look at the house and go back on Monday. Colt and I are flying out on Monday afternoon."

"Yeah, man, that would be cool," said Colton. "I wouldn't have to take the two buses--that takes all day."

"I'd sure like to see it--Colt's told me all about it. Is it true you got Johnny Unitas' locker?"

"Just the door and its been made into a motorized coffee table."

"Way cool!"

"Come on dude," said Colton. "Drop the boxers and get into bed. Tris wants to see you jack off."

"I'm not going to jack off. Saving it for Jasmijn tomorrow."

"Huh!" Tristan heard Colton say. "Jasmijn might not even want your scrawny ass. She's a sophisticated European babe."

"I make her laugh, Tris. That's the key to chicks. Make 'em laugh and they don't feel threatened and then they're putty."

"She better have a sense of humour when she sees that poor excuse in y'shorts. It's as small as Tristan's."

"Fuck you!" said Brady and Tristan in unison.

"Well, Tristan's European," argued Brady, "and so she might be used to..."

"Hey!" cried Tristan, "I might have an average cock, but I'm not a fucking European; I'm British!"

"Sorry, dude."

Colton was laughing so much he could hardly speak for minute. "Get it out, Brade. Give me your phone and I'll get you this hot thing about fisting lesbians from space."

"Seen it. Fat and ugly, man. Girl Scout Dungeon's better."

"Bit vanilla for me, but go ahead. See how awful his shorts are, Tris?" Colton angled his phone. They were pulled halfway down Brady's thighs but Tristan could see they were printed to resemble a pair of jeans with the fly open.

"I think they're hot," said Brady defensively.

"You're not wearing them tomorrow. I'll lend y'all a pair o'mine--even though they'll be too big on y'skinny butt."

"Clean or dirty?" put in Tristan.

"You know, Jasmijn might be turned on more if she could get a sniff of me while going down on Brady. Eh, Brade?"

"Shut the fuck up; I'm trying to get off."

"Well, Tristan can't see you. Come over here."

"I'm not getting' into the sack with you. You're nekkid and covered in cum."

"Over here!" said Colton in a commanding tone that Tristan had rarely heard. In a moment Brady came into view, waddling with his shorts down around his ankles and his erection in his left hand. His eyes were still glued to his phone. Then Tristan saw him on the pillow next to Colton. "Can you see good, Tris?"

"Yeah. Nice cock, Brade." Brady was too engrossed in whatever was on his phone to reply. Tristan watched his action. Colton must have been watching too, for he took the bottle of lube and dribbled some on Brady's cock without asking. He then angled the phone and Tristan could see that Colton's cock had risen. He then turned the phone on himself and grinned at Tristan.

"What's happening, dude?" Colton asked Brady at length.

"The troop leader--that's her in the yellow stilettos--is settin' up the St Andrew's cross for the girls to earn their S&M badge. Meanwhile, some of the girls is tryin' to sell cookies at the bikies' chapter house."

"Hot, dude," said Colton, then he winked at Tristan. He pulled Brady closer as if he weighed nothing at all and set his eyes on the screen. Tristan saw Colton stroking his own cock.

"Lube me, man."

Brady flipped open the cap with his thumbnail and drizzled Colton just as Colton had done to him but he was still riveted to the screen.

"Listen to that bitch squeal. She must have been a bad scout, Brade."

"Yeah," replied Brady huskily.

Tristan waited in silence as the two boys continued to stroke. "Y'close, Brade?"

"Yeah." Then, quite quickly, "Oh fuck!" He had apparently cum, but Tristan couldn't see it on his phone.

"I need a hand Brade."

Brady was trying to regain his breath. "Use your own. I'm not touching that thing."

"Come on, dude. Look at it. I'm fuckin' leaking stud sauce here and just busting, but I need a bro's help."

Tristan could see Brady turn towards Colton and gasp. "Fuck that thing's fuckin' enormous an' it looks like it might explode."

"Hoping it does. Get your hand on it."

There was a full minute's hesitation, but Brady complied. He just ran his fingernail up and down the straining flesh, clearly in admiration. "Round the head." Brady made small circles on the glans. Colton's hands had been clasped behind his head, with his pits on full display, but now Tristan saw Colton reach over and lightly place them on the back of Brady's skull. Brady didn't resist greatly and moved inexorably closer. "Just the tip of your tongue, buddy," said Colton, softly and tenderly, giving Brady's head an affectionate rub. Brady's tongue appeared and he flicked it like the tongue of an adder. Both boys moaned.

"Fuck, he even tastes nice, Tris," said Brady. Tristan had thought he'd been forgotten.

"Yeah," he admitted.

"Go down on me, dude," said Colton softly, but it was a command.

Brady did so, gently at first and then more vigorously. "No hands. Get me off with just your cocksucking mouth." Brady apparently ignored the insult and his shaggy head bobbed up and down and he even choked when he went too deep, to which Colton responded: "Appreciate y'all tryin', dude."

There was a long interval, then: "Gettin' close, Brade."

Brady urgently spoke with his mouth full: "No, hold off for a spell."

Tristan could see Brady shifting himself around on Colton's bed. Colton adjusted the phone so Tristan could keep them in view. Now Brady was straddling Colton's torso, resting on his spread knees and with his feet pointing to the headboard in an effort to take Colton deeper. Colton rested his hands lightly on Brady's white buttocks, just parting them slightly.

"Gettin' close again."

"Wait!" Tristan thought he heard Brady say in desperation.

Three minutes later Tristan saw the sweat-soaked Colton tense. "Gonna cum!" cried Colton and, at the same instant, he thrust his tongue savagely into Brady's hole.

Brady almost certainly swallowed the first spurt but then pulled off in panic, only to have his face and hair plastered in the quarterback's semen.

He rolled over onto his back, panting and with his eyes closed. Colton chanced a grin to Tristan on the phone. "That was awesome, dude. Thanks."

"Fuck!" said Brady on his back. "Even his cum tastes good. Did I do a good job, Tris?"

"Pretty good for a straight boy."

"Does it make me gay?"

Tristan wasn't sure but said: "Like opera?"

"No."

"Then you're safe. But it was sure hot to watch. If you're anything like that with Jasmijn, then she's in for a real hot date." Brady did not reply and Tristan thought that he probably was not thinking of his date from the Netherlands at that moment.

"Back to your own bed, dude. Here, borrow m'cum towel." Tristan saw it fly across the room.

"Good night, Tris," said Colton.

"Yeah, good night, Tris. See you on Sunday."

Colton gave a final grin then gave the phone a little kiss when he saw that Brady had turned away. Then Tristan's phone went black.

Please look for the next chapter. Henry would love to receive feedback and will endeavour to reply. Please email h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com and put Tristan in the subject line.